Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

“And the agency?”

I can’t even answer in fear my voice will crack. I resort to a quick head shake. You would think that with a double degree in psychology and early childhood education, I wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a decent job. The problem is that my husband’s crime has been well publicized in the Tristate area, along with my face, and since I can’t afford to move elsewhere, anywhere that I won’t be easily recognized, finding a job has become a torturous experience. I’ve resorted to scraping the bottom of the barrel. Basically, I’m ready to consider the receptionist position at the gentleman’s club––if they’ll have me, that is.

“You’ll find something, I know you will. And I can always ask Bill if he needs another secretary.”

Bill is the owner of the plumbing business my father runs. He’s also the lech that insists I call him uncle while openly grazing my boobs at holiday parties every chance he gets.

No thanks.

I always thought my father should go into business for himself. His excuse is that he didn’t want to do that to Bill, who had given him his first job after trade school. Truth is, my father and I are a lot alike. Translation: he doesn’t need much to be happy, and he has everything he needs in my mother and me. As he constantly tells us.

“How you doin’ with money?”

“Fine, Dad, really,” I answer quickly.

It’s a total lie of course. At this point, though, I’d rather turn tricks than take another one of their hard-earned pennies. My parents are working class folks, scrupulously disciplined savers, as ‘old school’ as it gets. They’re even suspicious of credit cards. It took my mother years before she finally caved and started using an ATM machine. And I still see her hit the cancel button like ten times before she walks away because she’s convinced that somehow the next person can get into her account without a card.

With the way the economy has been going in the last ten years, their income can no longer cover their expenses. Lately, they’ve had to dip into their retirement fund. A retirement fund that has been decimated thanks to all the legal fees I incurred proving that I had nothing to do with Matt’s business.

The fancy float in this shit parade is that Matt never suggested my parents invest with him, not once, leaving their retirement fund intact when so many others had suffered terrible losses. Did he do it on purpose knowing I needed that money to prove my innocence? I’ll never know. In the end, everybody lost. That’s why I can’t ask them to loan me any more money. The situation has officially become dire.

Just then, by some miracle, my cell phone rings. The name of the agency I signed with a month ago flashes on the screen. It’s the first time they’ve ever called.

“Hello,” I answer enthusiastically.

“Ms. DeSantis?”

Yup, I’ve learned the hard way that it’s best to use my maiden name. The name Blake seems to inspire looks of total disgust once the person interviewing me places where they’ve heard it. Of course, they all assume I was an accomplice at worst. Or, at the very least, fully aware of what my husband was up to. Never mind I was cleared by two government agencies. I don’t even want to entertain the notion of what would’ve happened if I didn’t have the money for a decent lawyer.

“Yes?”

“We need you to come in tomorrow. A job listing has come up that you qualify for.”

Saved by the bell.

“The position requires you to live on the property.”

Sitting across the lady from the employment agency, Mrs. Marsh, I wait patiently for her to continue. She takes the pen from behind her ear, pokes it through her teased up, gray bob, and scratches an itch on the side of her head. My eyes follow the dandruff that sprinkles down onto the shoulder of her black blazer.

“Is that going to be a problem? It pays extremely well––don’t think about it too long. ”

I stare at her blankly, waiting for the bomb to drop, any bomb. This employment opportunity seems too good to be true, and after what my handsome and loving husband has done, I’m a born-again skeptic. Everything seems too good to be true.

“Where’s the property?”

Truth: I have $48.77 sitting in my checking account. If the property is in the Sudan, I’ll be on the first flight out.

“Alpine, New Jersey.”

“Alpine is only a ten minute drive from where I’m currently living.”

“If you can’t reside on the property, they won’t even consider you. And quite frankly, Ms. DeSantis, we haven’t been able to find any employer that’s willing to overlook the trouble that your notoriety will bring. Nobody wants the headache.” She finishes with a shrug, her expression tight in a manner that makes her look constipated.